As he doubted, one of the assistants, obsequiousness ironed out of his face, was opening the door for Guzmann; who, secure in the knowledge that he was the most valued item at present in the shop, moved across the floor with the unhurried purposefulness of a pregnant woman, with the same certainty that no one would importunately jostle the burden he carried in front of him. About eight months, thought Brett unkindly, eyeing Guzmann from the side as he went round the fibre screen. He would be going to the office of Mr. Kellett, if such a person existed. Would he, the manager, the director, come scuttling down in person to the shelves to find Mr. Guzmann’s choice? That choice would be, doubtless, too valuable to be kept in the main shop, even though the vulgar herd was never allowed to browse there.

“I think,” said Brett, on an inexplicable impulse, “I’ll look over the recorders while I’m here. They’re still displayed upstairs?”

“Yes, sir,” said the girl, bored, “round the screen and take the stairs to your left.”

Brett obeyed, acknowledging to himself that he was slightly mad. He passed the record shelves, and paused for a minute at the foot of the stairs. On his right was the cash desk, which was so situated that anyone leaving the playing cubicles could not avoid passing it. If they wanted to buy the record they had finished hearing, they handed it to the cashier, who placed it on a latex-padded conveyor belt which ran from her desk to the front of the shop, where the record was wrapped while the customer paid.

He ran up the stairs, which took a turn to the right and led to the display of equipment, arranged on a handsome dark orange carpet and white tables. He glanced round quickly. As he had expected, Anatole Guzmann was not to be seen. At the back of the room, separated by a wood and glass partition, was an apartment which was devoted to the needs of those who possessed and wished to play vintage and veteran records. It was just possible that Guzmann might be in there. Brett crossed the room and looked through the glass. The apartment was empty.

He turned back towards the head of the stairs. Immediately to the left of them as one came up was a swing door, marked private, giving on a corridor. Brett guessed that the rooms adjoining this corridor were offices, not, perhaps managerial offices. But as the basement held only wirelesses, he was sure that Guzmann would be in this part of the building; and he was determined to find out.

An assistant was approaching. “Can I help you, sir?” he asked; or rather, suggested. Brett neither paused nor deflected his course. “No, thank you,” he said coldly. That answer, in that voice, had never yet failed him; it didn’t now. The assistant stopped in his tracks, and Brett pushed open the door.